...Opening one of these comic books felt like seeing the daylight again for someone who had been trapped underground by a mine-disaster for many days. I blinked carefully because my eyes hadn’t gotten used to the glistening sun of Duckburg yet, and I greedily sucked the fresh breeze into my dusty lungs that came drifting over from Uncle Scrooge’s money bin.

I was back home again, in a decent world where one could get flattened by steam-rollers and run through by bullets without serious harm. A world in which the people still look proper, with yellow beaks or black knobs instead of noses. And it was here that I met the man who would forever change my life - a man who, as the Austrian poet H.C. Artmann put it, is the only person today that has something worth telling us - Donald Duck.